


the war rider

by millimallow



Series: the world of owa [5]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Deer, Dwarves, Fantasy, Multi, short fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 08:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17484695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millimallow/pseuds/millimallow
Summary: he comes in the night as an image of smoke and blood.





	the war rider

we’ve been seeing him all night. we don’t know if it’s the rising smoke, or a smog induced hallucination from waiting, hiding, by the roots of trees. or if it really is him. but this is what the old religion foretold to us. the arrival of the war rider atop his steed, son of a god long dead.

our pursuers have chased us deeper and deeper throughout the day, towards the border of our territory. an assault began from their encampment early in the morning, and since then? everything’s gone completely out of our control. nightfall is beginning, though the smoke of the forest fires has choked out the sun for a good while now, and i’ve heard little from many of the men who strode in during the morning hours. the tiny corners we are herded towards become ever more encircled with the flames they set to drive us out and towards the mountains. our smoke signals are rendered useless and any plan we had is in tatters. but the others trapped here, soldiers and civilians alike, tell me it excitedly. that they’ve seen the war rider, striding unpeturbed by the flames. and all we have is our belief.

recent memory does not hold recollection of something as drastic as this. our young are murdered on their own as they cross lonely paths, but we have not yet been exterminated in droves. the circumstance is hardly drastic; our only crime was the invitation of one of the pahana elves back onto their old territory. a single man, unarmed and unarmoured, without even a facial tattoo. visiting the graves of his great ancestors, paying tribute at their preserved stone houses. he bought gifts- apple preserves and fragrant flatbread from his new home- and in our lowland town we celebrated. to have family brought home was a sweet thing, sweeter than any summer fruit. it did not last.

as i remember the story from what i was told, the young man and his older dwarven guide had set out for the forest in the early hours to pick mushrooms for his trip back to the plainslands. but as the sun provided suitable visibility for foraging it provided the same for patrols. an encounter was unexpected, but horseback soldiers had taken a diverging path since their set-out and lurked in the bushes when they heard foreign tongue spoken. having caught the pair on their bellies in the dirt, resistance was futile, so the cavalry began to strip them with force and check for proof of identity. what they found was the tattoo of a belladonna plant on the young elf’s right shoulder. it has been a law here for a good hundred years or longer that the presence of elves with traditional tattoos is forbidden, and those violating the law or assisting violators were to be treated as treasonous and potential terrorists. with no chance of fighting back and no money for a bribe, what could be done? they ran fast into the forest, followed by flurries of fireballs that set the nearby foliage alight. it was not long before we were all alerted, nor was it long before the guards called in reinforcements. and it was all to culminate in this meeting.

we are still hearing the sound of hooves amongst the crackling flames. our drafthorses buckled at the sight of the fire, so it has no chance of being our allies, not even the war rider. in battle, the war rider is mounted upon a deer with great antlers, twice the size of its fellow bucks, and its coat is perpetually stained with the blood of the fallen. implanted in its flank is a great blade that despite its size and composure never tarnishes, nor causes the animal any kind of pain. it simply bisects the chest and emerges from the other side, below the ribcage. it will use this and its horns to carve an enemy formation into shreds. while the allies of the rider flank the opponent it will send them flying to the ground. and during peacetime, some say the buck can be seen in the mating season, striding through leaves and taking does as it pleases. we never hunt the deer. amongst them could be any number of sacred beings. but during war it is mounted by the rider and lives for him alone. the rider wears robes that melt into shadow as he strides, flowing behind him like an apparition and casting no corporeal shadow. his face is obscured in the holy tradition, but his hood is painted with the all-seeing eye and its three tears of blood.

for all the fallen soldiers.

for all the fallen civilians and children.

for all the fallen animals.

his saddle is leather from his enemies, and onto his mount it bleeds until the end of time.

why write this now, and not mount an escape? the fire encapsulates our party entirely. amongst us we all have our own children; there will be great pain should we die, but our memory will live on in them, as will the sarmot fir. we will mount a last-ditch attempt to corner a few of their shoulders should they wander into the clearing we hide at the edge of, trapping them using magic and hopefully immobilizing them for long enough to take out the men. should they come on horses we will have the tallest of our compatriots mount one so as that he may run unobstructed towards the mountains, but we consider that it will be futile regardless. and it will not be me. i will not die a coward, running into the thistles that adorn my skin. either the tide of battle will turn or i will die on the edge of a sword, outrunning the flames as best as i can. all i hope is that this journal survives the smog and the flames underneath the earth where i bury it and my final words.

to the west of me, a pair of antlers cuts through the boughs of a tall elm. it beckons for me to follow.


End file.
